


I'm Sitting On Top of the World

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 8 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Shine up them spats, let's hit the town and go see Bessie, shall we?
Relationships: BASICALLY EVERYBODY/EVERYBODY - Relationship, Harley Keener/James "Bucky" Barnes, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Clint Barton, Peter Parker/Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Series: Roaring Hot [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 122
Kudos: 362





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse, although it sure SEEMS like everything is getting better, doesn't it?).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

“Tony?” shouts Harley, “Can I borrow your gray spats? The left one?”

“What?” says Tony back, coming into their bedroom, fingers working at the buttons on his vest. He looks _very_ Sheik tonight, Peter thinks, swallowing hard. His deep green vest is so tightly tailored, against the midnight black of his pants, it’s a very good look, Peter kinda doesn’t want to see it hidden by a coat. Tony catches his glance and smiles like a shark in return, all teeth. Peter drops his gaze, fighting back his blush and returning to his task. Boots, right. Boots. “Cat, where the hell are yours?”

“Uh,” says Harley, standing there with his pants on, shirt unbuttoned, shoes in one hand. Peter snickers and concentrates on hooking up his boots, trying to make his motions as efficient as Tony’s always are.

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Cat?” he asks, voice hard-edged. “You throwing away my good money?”

“No, I can, I know where they are,” says Harley quickly. 

“Do you?” asks Tony, in that same tone of voice.

“I do,” Harley assures him.

“Because now I’ll be expecting you to wear them,” explains Tony, sidling close to Peter.

“I know where they are,” huffs Harley.

“ _Do_ you,” says Tony, but now his voice is just a little teasing and Peter tries to hide his smile. Good to know that he’s not the only one being batted at, around this place.

“I do, Tony,” says Harley confidently, but Peter glances up and sees how his gaze darts around the room, a little frantic, his eyes just a touch narrowed in thought.

“Would like to see them, be assured they’re not in some gutter somewhere, my good money in a gutter, Hellcat,” murmurs Tony, sitting beside Peter, his body language playful and relaxed. He smells amazing, Peter notices. It’s a strong masculine scent, some kind of cologne. Maybe he’d let Peter try some on, thinks Peter, but he keeps quiet, because someone else is getting batted at and Peter is ready to watch that for once.

“I know where they are, I’ll have ‘em on,” grumbles Harley, buttoning his shirt. But he’s spinning around a little, walking in a circle as he buttons, looking around the room with that darting gaze. Peter finishes up his boot and smiles, where Harley can’t see him. He grabs for his own white spats and straps them into place, hooking them on with the buttonhook.

“Peter’s got his two,” says Tony, with a wicked smile at Peter. Peter grins back at him and straps the second one on. It’s not showing off, it’s just the order of things, first boots, then spats. It’s not showing off.

“Well, I have mine,” Harley shoots back, just as fast.

“The gray ones,” repeats Tony in a musing tone. “The ones you wore Monday night?”

“Sure,” says Harley. “Some night, anyway.” He flicks his cuffs out and walks to the dresser, gaze still darting around the room. He selects a pair of cufflinks from one of the boxes and places them quickly, with his fast, clever fingers.

Tony hums. “I can see one of ‘em from here, on the bed, is that the right one or the left?”

“It’s the _right_ , Tony,” spits Harley, obviously annoyed.

“Oh,” says Tony, lips twitching. “Because you said you were missing the left one, but then you said you knew right where it was, I’m a little confused, is all.”

Peter rises to stand, collect his vest, and Tony grabs his waist, pulls him down to Tony’s lap with strong arms, nuzzles into Peter’s neck. “Brother’s looking mighty fine, in his matching spats, is all,” he tells Harley.

Harley blows out a breath and darts a glare in their direction. “Yeah, I can see that,” he agrees. “He’ll fit right in with the crew, babyface like he’s got and them shiny white spats.”

“I like it,” Tony informs him, hugging Peter to him. “I like his babyface and bright white spats.”

Peter wiggles back against him, and knows he can feel Peter’s silent laughter as Harley scowls and spins, lifting up his burgundy striped vest to slip it on and glaring at the shadows under the furniture. 

“Sure would like to see your babyface and gray spats,” says Tony, hopefully. “That gonna happen anytime soon?”

“I always put ‘em on last,” Harley says back easily, which is a total lie and makes Peter snort.

“Never noticed that,” chuckles Tony, rubbing his chin on Peter’s shoulder, rocking them both just a little, enough to make Peter wrap his arms around Tony’s arms across his stomach for balance. 

“Well, I do,” scowls Harley.

“I always like to put mine on before the jacket,” offers Peter. “Because it’s easier to reach ‘em, jackets always get in the way.”

Tony hums and says cheerfully, “You know, Angel, I agree? Always like to get them on before the coat. Even the best tailoring, everything’s more free in just shirtsleeves, seems like.”

Peter nods, and Tony chuckles.

“Well, don’t wait on me,” says Harley slowly. “You both have on your spats, Peter just needs his vest, you’re ready for your coat, you could go get that done, you don’t have to wait on me.”

“Don’t mind waiting,” says Tony cheerfully. “Little worried about the left spat, to be honest. Where did you say it was?”

Peter snickers, as quietly as he can, as Harley heads for the closet while demurring, “Oh, I didn’t say, but I know, don’t have to worry, Boss.”

“You _could_ say, though, right, Cat?” calls Tony, pitching his voice to carry into the closet. There’s the sound of rustling boots and cloth and Peter bites his lip, snickering.

“Could,” agrees Harley, calling back. “But you don’t need to worry about it, Boss, go get your coat, get Pepper to approve the look, make Natasha swoon.”

“I got Peter swooning right here,” Tony calls back, jiggling his knee to make Peter grip him tight again. Peter lets out a giggle, just a little one, and Tony chuckles, pulling him back tight against Tony’s chest. “I’m good.”

Harley exits the closet shrugging on his coat, burgundy with thin gray stripes to match the vest, scowling, and walks over to the dresser again, pulling up a pocket watch and sliding the chain around a button before sliding it into a vest pocket. He puts three rings on his fingers, big, fat, flashy rings, and then looks up in the mirror and makes eye contact with Peter. Peter smiles back at him and his eyes narrow.

“Say,” says Harley slowly. “What do _you_ know?”

Peter stills, his stomach shaking with laughter he’s suppressing for a moment. When he’s sure he’s got it under control, he says nonchalantly, “Lots you don’t, why?”

“You know where my spat is?” asks Harley bluntly, whirling, stalking closer. 

“Don’t _you_ know where it is?” asks Tony, feigning surprise. Peter can hear the chuckle in his voice and it almost makes Peter’s own waiting giggle burst out. 

“Oh, I know,” says Harley. “I’m just checking with Angel, he seems to know something about it, too.” He crouches down in front of Peter and Tony. Peter has a quick intake of breath, because he has some really fond memories of a moment just like this, on Tony’s lap, Harley in front of them. Peter tries for a look of wide-eyed innocence but isn’t sure how successful it is when Harley’s eyes narrow and he puts his hands on Peter’s knees. “Angel?” he growls, shaking them just a little.

Peter smiles at him. “You wore it on Monday?” he asks, cheerfully. “Monday, when you got back, had me help you out because your fingers were too addled to work the hook?”

Harley’s eyes narrow as he searches his memories and clearly comes up blank. “Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “That’s how Monday night worked out. I don’t remember it but it’s been a busy week.”

“Oh, but I thought you said you knew where the spat went,” teases Peter. “If you don’t remember that, how can you know where they went?”

“Angel,” warns Harley. “I don’t think, I can’t believe, that you need a reminder, position you’re in, of what you _owe_ me.”

“Position I’m in,” muses Peter, and then he does what everyone’s always doing to _him_ , he traces Harley’s jawline and touches his thumb to Harley’s lip, smiling broadly as Harley’s eyes narrow up at him so tightly they almost squint. “The position where I know where the spat is, Harley?” he asks, innocently.

“So _someone_ knows where my good money’s gone,” chuckles Tony, arms tightening a second around Peter’s stomach. “Good baby.”

“Oh, we’re all gonna know in three seconds,” promises Harley, his eyes dark on Peter’s face.

“We are?” asks Peter guilelessly.

“Talk,” orders Harley.

“About what?” asks Peter, in a completely mystified tone of voice.

“Three,” says Harley, and Peter squirms, a thrill going down his spine.

“Ooh, he’s _counting_ ,” teases Tony, quietly, in Peter’s ear. Peter tosses his head, giggling a little.

“Two,” grits Harley, and Peter taps Harley’s lips with his thumb, grinning.

“Better talk,” advises Tony, kissing Peter’s shoulder. “He looks some serious.”

“One,” agrees Harley, nodding a little.

Peter laughs, “Only how could you forget, Harley?”

“Forget what, Angel?” growls Harley.

“Happy came in, doing his rounds,” laughs Peter, rubbing his finger across Harley’s lips. “Don’t you remember _that_ , at least?” They’d about given the Angelside man a heart attack, with what they’d been doing to each other.

Harley shakes his head just a little and Peter’s hand drops back to cover Tony’s arms around his waist. 

“You shouted he was ‘interrupting affairs of state,’ Harley,” laughs Peter. “And you threw your shoe at him, and the spat hit him straight in his face, don’t you _remember_ that?”

Harley’s eyes narrow and he says, “So _Happy_ has my spat,” in an angry tone of voice.

“Thought you knew that,” points out Tony, cheerfully. “He’s been wearing it all week, with his white one. I notice small things like that.”

“It wasn’t subtle,” laughs Peter, nodding.

“Brother, we’re gonna have a little chat about subtle one of these days,” grumbles Harley. “Have another one about betrayal and revenge, too,” he adds darkly.

“Oo-ooh,” teases Tony, jiggling Peter, making him giggle helplessly. “Better watch yourself, Angel, Hellcat’s bent on _revenge_.”

Harley watches them for a second, and his scowl slides to a grin. “Well, could be talked out of it,” he admits.

“Oh, please,” gasps Peter, around the giggles, “please, judge, how do I earn that pardon, your honor?”

“Gimme one of them sorries, and one of them sweet Angel kisses,” demands Harley loftily.

Peter leans forward, willing, but Tony pulls him back, saying, “I’ll speak on behalf of my client in this matter,” in a severe and pinched tone of voice, straight outta a Johnny Dollar radio serial. “Price seems awfully stiff for a first time offense.”

Harley grins up at them and says, “Well, just the kiss, then. Give ‘im a break for good behavior.”

Tony laughs, “Deal,” and releases Peter.

Peter’s giggling again at the first press of lips and he loves the shape of Harley’s lips smiling back at him. But he doesn’t mind a bit when the smiling stops and the kiss slides deeper, hotter, and his giggles turn into moans. He doesn’t mind that at all.

Tony shifts under him and Peter breaks the kiss to lean back, smug, against Tony’s chest. “Forgiven?” he asks Harley. “You gotta go track down Happy for that spat, Harley.”

Harley laughs up at him and says, “Yeah, all right. You help him into that vest,” he directs Tony. “It’s a tight fit, was looking forward to it, but I gotta go wrestle a spat offa a man.”

“Pleasure’s mine,” Tony assures him, nuzzling Peter’s neck. Peter squirms, and can feel how Tony liked the show, just a bit, because it’s pressing against his backside just a bit, just enough for Peter to feel it through the thin layers of their summertime suits. “Like to see you both done up for prowling tonight,” adds Tony, “although you’ll be on your best behavior, right, Angel?”

“Yes, Boss,” says Peter, and then, quieter, “Yes, Tony.”

“Mm,” hums Tony, “I do like that. You’re worth mornings full of busted knuckles and heart attacks before whisky, anyone ever tell you that before?”

“No,” says Peter honestly, leaning back, feeling Tony breathe in and breathe out in the rhythm that’s become so familiar to him already. 

It’s just the two of them, so he gathers up the courage to ask, “How do you smell so _good_?”

Tony chuckles and says, “Yeah, it’s Tasha’s favorite, too. C’mon, we’ll go put that vest on and douse you in some smell-sweet, too.” Peter nods, a little reluctantly, because this has been nice, and he doesn’t want it to end.

He pulls himself up, though, and Tony stands with him, their bodies as tight together upright as they’d been sitting. Tony puts his hands on Peter’s hips, hooking his fingers in Peter’s suspenders, and says, “Tasha came, told me about you up at the range.” Peter stills, because even though Steve explained it, even though he said it was good, he also says Tony gets _jealous_. It’s a dizzying relief when the next thing he says is in Tony’s smiling proud voice, the one he uses when Peter shows him something Harley taught him that day. “She said you tasted like sweet honey and coffee. Told her I wouldn’t mind watching her put you on your knees like that, someday. What do you think of that, Angel?”

Peter’s breathing is tight, his body burning with just the faintest buzz of hellfire. “I’d do that,” he says, through a fog, “for you, yes, Tony.”

“I like the way you say that, ‘for me,’ Angel,” Tony tells him, voice husky, hands slipping behind the suspenders just a bit more, nudging past the high waist of Peter’s slacks. “You do things for me you wouldn’t do for anybody else, Angel?”

“Yes, Tony,” confesses Peter quietly, because that’s true. He kissed Tony, his second kiss ever, and he’d signed his name Peter Stark, and he lies down and lets Bucky shave him every day, all things he’s done for Tony he wouldn’t do for anyone else, he thinks.

“I like that,” murmurs Tony into Peter’s ear. Peter shivers.

Tony chuckles, “Yeah, I like that, too. We get home tonight, I’d like more of it. Maybe kick Harley out for once, have you all to myself.”

Peter twitches and Tony laughs, “Won’t get you too dirty, angel, but go ahead and panic a bit, it’s a good look on you, all wild-eyed and blushing. Here, let’s put this vest of yours on, go dig through my gems and get you some bits of shine. Gotta look in fine fettle if you’re gonna meet Fury.” He holds up the gray vest, with the burgundy trim and buttons, and smiles. “Matched set, Mrs. Stark's not going for subtle, is she?”

Peter chuckles, and slides his arms into the holes, saying, “Yeah, but she told me to wear the white spats, in case Harley didn’t figure it out in time.”

Tony snorts as he smoothes the fabric across his shoulders and down his back, and then wraps his arms around Peter’s waist to start buttoning the vest up. He works efficiently, his hands are so clever and confident, thinks Peter, tipping his head back to rest on Tony’s shoulder. No matter what Peter’s seen him do, writing or eating or dressing, he makes everyone around him look _clumsy_ , he’s so neat and fast. Tony grunts into Peter’s ear, “This is about as fitted as it can be, what was Pepper thinking, not giving you a little room to grow?” 

Peter shivers and says, “I think this is the one she said should be youthful, anyway.”

“Youthful?” asks Tony doubtfully. Peter shrugs and says, “They did all kinds of talking, Tony. I’m pretty sure Harley’s is supposed to look cagey and this one is supposed to look youthful, whatever that means.”

“Hm,” grunts Tony, finishing the last button, and then he spins Peter around and steps back, his dark eyes intent on Peter’s body in a way that makes Peter stand very still, caught. He twitches the sleeves of Peter’s shirt, just a little, at the shoulder, and then steps back even further. “I see it,” he declares, finally. “It’s the way it makes you look slim, the way the colors make you look like you’re wearing a school uniform, just a bit. Damn, but Harley’s tongue’ll be panting, he gets a good look at you. Hell, I’ll bet Bucky half falls over himself over this line, right here-” he runs the tips of his fingers down the sides of Peter’s ribs, ending at his hips. Peter shivers again, and Tony smiles. He runs his fingers back up, and Peter twitches as he rubs, up and down, down and up, several more times. 

“Now, myself,” Tony says, his voice gone husky and deep, as he pulls Peter closer with his clever hands, “I like this line, this one is Pep’s gift to _me_ ,” he says, and trails a finger down Peter’s spine, starting at mid back and ending at the base of Peter’s spine. Peter wiggles closer and tilts his head up. 

“You invitin’, now?” teases Tony, “Learning fast, time does fly. Well, Angel, don’t mind if I do.” He leans down the last inch between them and seals their lips together.

Peter has no idea how long he stands there, in Tony’s arms, being devoured and delighted and spun dizzy. It feels like three heartbeats and a whole lifetime. Tony’s kisses aren’t like anyone else’s, he’s _demanding_ , as he somehow gives the impression that he’s expecting Peter to give more, give him everything. Peter tries, he tries his best, and when Tony finally releases him with a chuckle, Peter is so filled with ache and need and a desire to do whatever Tony wants that he hangs there, eyes closed, for just a minute more.

“Such an angel, baby,” croons Tony, one hand rising to brush his knuckles across Peter’s cheek. “Kiss so sweet, taste so sweet. Here, reminds me, I promised you some smell-sweet, come with me to Tasha’s suite.”

Peter smiles up at him, shyly, and Tony darts forward, pecks at his lips. “Best present anyone ever got for me, Angel,” he declares. “Loved all them first-time blushes, you were so nervy, and now you’re budding out so soft and gentle, unfolding. I love to watch it.”

Peter’s blushing, he knows it, because Tony laughs and teases, “Yeah, just like that. Half a mind to disappoint the whole crew and say I’m staying in, chase that pink and see where all it leads, but Daddy’s gotta work, Angel, and Fury’n’me don’t often get to clap eyes, life keeping us on our sides of the line for the most part.”

“Harley’ll spit kittens if you make him miss Bessie after promising all week,” Peter agrees ruefully.

“Kitten’s’ll be the least of it,” laughs Tony. “All right, stop looking like an ice cream sundae, can’t keep my hands offa you that way.”

Peter shifts, because that’s not exactly an instruction he knows how to follow, and Tony turns towards the door to Pepper’s suite, snapping his fingers once. Peter’s there, just behind him, as he fast-steps through Pepper’s empty suite and into Natasha’s. 

The room is dim and dark, or maybe that’s just the deep reds and blacks of the decor. There are pops of gold, like hidden flames scattered around the space, and Peter marvels at how Pepper’s room can feel so bright and this one feel so dark, when they both have so much red.

Clint is helping Natasha into her shoes, low heels with thick black straps all over the topside. She’s dressed to thrill, Peter realizes, with a boxy drop-waisted number that accentuates how slim she is, how trim. It drips with sequins and fringe and beads and must weigh a ton, in a green and black design that exactly matches the color of Tony’s suit. “Hey, Boss,” she greets Tony cheerfully, “Looking neat, fits you swell. And look at Angel,” she directs Clint, kicking her shoe against his knee and whistling.

Clint glances over at Peter and then feigns shock, falling to the floor. “Good Lord,” he swears, and Peter’s startled because no one takes the Lord’s name in vain, but neither Natasha nor Tony even flinch, “Sweet Jesus, kid, you’ll take out half of Harlem looking that innocent. What did Pepper tell that tailor, that he made up a schoolboy set of rags?”

“Nah, we’ll cover it with a coat,” laughs Tony, digging through the bottles on top of the dresser. “Keep it just to the family’s eyes only.”

“Like hell,” declares Natasha, “I’m taking him dancing, it’ll be too hot for a coat.”

“Then I guess Harlem’s gonna lose half, over our Angelbaby cutting rugs looking so young he’s still cutting teeth,” chuckles Tony, selecting a bottle with a sound of satisfaction.

Natasha narrows her eyes at him and says, “Boss, that is _yours_.”

“Why, so it is,” says Tony in a voice of surprise. He dabs a little on Peter’s wrists and lifts them to Peter’s neck, rubbing there, too. The same thick masculine scent wafts over Peter, fills his nose with richness that definitely has him thinking, _Tony_. “Why, Peter, Angel, it’s like you’ll smell like me all night. Imagine _that_.” Peter’s lips part as he does, he does imagine that. All _night_.

There’s a pause, and then Clint swears, “Sweet _fuck_. You’re trying to kill _us_.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at Tony and Tony smirks back at him.

“Better put Harley in the second car,” laughs Natasha wickedly, sliding a pair of earrings into her ears and adjusting her feathered headband in the mirror. “Or he’ll be all wrinkled before he even meets Fury.”

“Nah, want my matched set with me,” drawls Tony, heading back to the dresser to dig through more boxes. “‘Bout time Bucky starts earning his cabbage again. Besides, he misses them little chats with Harley, I can tell. Starting to get a little wilted, needs some perking up.”

Natasha and Clint both snort and Clint says, “Your funeral, Boss. Hate to see half of Harlem go up in red flames, but you’re the Boss.”

“Sure am,” agrees Tony, with a glint in his eye as he turns, two rings and a watch and chain in hand. He purses his lips in consternation when Peter’s fingers are all too small to hold the rings and then says, “‘Tasha, you got any rings for Angel? Slim fingers, yet,” while he places the pocket watch on Peter’s fourth button and slips it into his pocket.

Natasha laughs and digs in an ornate box on the dresser, producing two. “Here, Boss,” she offers, and Tony slides them onto Peter’s middle fingers.

“There,” he says in satisfaction. “Now, if you gotta throw a punch, you’ll have a chance of painting the floor red.”

Peter swallows, nervously, and Tony chuckles. “You ain’t gonna have to, Angel, it’s just for the show of the thing.”

Peter nods and Clint groans, “Oh God, is Steve comin’ with us?”

“Angel needs his guard, Bucky’s gonna have his hands full with Harley,” Tony informs him, shooting Clint an annoyed glance. “You’ll be too busy with Tasha.”

“Tasha can take care of herself,” argues Clint. “Let me escort Angel, seriously, you know how Fury gets when the Captain’s around.”

“You think he’s falling for that?” Scoffs Natasha. “Tony, don’t you _dare_. I seen ‘em kiss this morning, he just wants Peter dizzy drunk and unchaperoned.”

Clint rolls his eyes, and says urgently, “You know they’re gonna fight, they always do.”

“Maybe not,” laughs Tony. “Maybe one or the other’ll be too busy.”

“Fight?” asks Peter, quietly, nervously. 

“Might break out,” confirms Tony casually, shaking his head and smiling a little. “Don’t worry, drivers’ll keep the cars ready to roll out, it comes to that. Mostly it’ll be grabbing Harley and Bucky and hauling them out, they love a good dust up.” He smiles at Peter, slow and smug. “But you won’t have to worry, Angel. You’re mine, and that means something, even in places where my money don’t spend.”

“Hey, which spats is Harley stylin’ tonight?” asks Clint, clearly distracted.

“The gray ones,” chuckles Tony.

“Oh dear,” says Natasha, batting her heavily-kohled eyes at Tony. “He figure it out yet?”

“I was gonna let him dangle ‘til just before we lit out, but Peter took mercy,” chuckles Tony.

“Aww,” complains Clint. “You always gonna spoil the show?” He grumps at Peter.

Peter shrugs, still thinking about the fight that Tony says may or may not be in his future. 

“Oh, still got the show,” declares Tony, smiling broadly at Peter and winking, tweaking Peter’s tie just a bit. Peter swallows and smiles back at him, shyly. “Put on a good show, got me half-revved for homecoming tonight.”

“Lord,” swears Clint, and when Peter glances over he can see the man’s eyes are narrowed, traveling up and down Peter’s form. “Well, get him an education, he’s gonna walk around here in schoolboy rags putting on shows with Hellcat, or it’s gonna be the death of half of us before Christmas.”

“Working on it,” announces Harley, from the doorway. Everyone turns to look at his shoes and he rolls his eyes, sticking out first one and then the other. “ _Told_ you they wasn’t in a gutter, Boss,” he teases Tony.

Everyone in the room snorts at the statement. Harley smiles back smugly and says, “Didn’t even have to bargain too hard with Happy to get ‘em back, just told him I’d stay out of the gardens and stables for the next month.”

Clint laughs, “I’ll believe it when I see it, you and them stableboys of yours.”

“They bum him the foulest gaspers,” Natasha explains to Peter. “Which he only smokes in the first place because it ticks Bucky off.”

“Not true,” interrupts Harley hotly. “Settles my nerves. Bucky gets ticked on account of Steve’s still got some breathing thing, his lungs seize up when there’s too much smoke. He’ll be coughing for days after tonight, point of fact.”

“Okay, coat, Peter, and grab mine, I think we’re ready to roll down to Fury’s doorstep, soon as the guards get here,” announces Tony. Peter scrambles to go collect their coats from the other rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the smut makes you nervous or isn't your cup of tea, don't stress about future chapters, I promise the very next smut scene is very sweet and clean and Angelsided. I know how to keep the balance. ;)

When the cars stop, Peter looks around wildly, because they’re nowhere in particular. There’s a butcher shop and a barber, with the shoe-shine stand out front. Across the street is a small grocery with empty bins out front, and two nondescript shops on either side. It looks like a street in any neighborhood anywhere in New York, a little rundown, sure, but not, well. In his head he had pictured a speakeasy would look different. Special. Exotic.

Harley hoots beside him, in good spirits, “And here’s where we set sail, brother!” He opens the door and shouts back to the men in the other car as Tony smiles down at Peter and gestures for Peter to lead the way.

Peter climbs out of the car cautiously. The men are stumbling from the other two vehicles, loud and laughing, shouting at Harley and each other. It’s not… it’s not a quiet entrance to a secret speakeasy, like Peter had expected. No one is hiding _anything_ , in fact, including the flasks of hootch they throw to each other.

“Stark,” rumbles a deep voice from the slim alley between the butcher and the barber shop. “You specifically trying to make my neighbors ornery?”

Tony whistles, one short sharp note, rising at the end, and the crowd of men go abruptly and eerily silent.

“Much obliged,” says the deep voice wryly. “Well, get in, Bessie won’t be on for another- oh, hell, no.” A tall, dark figure steps out of the alley, and Peter stares because the man has an eyepatch on and is glaring at the car that pulls up beside Tony’s second car. “Are you dragging Johnny Storm tonight, Stark?”

“Not me,” protests Tony, holding up his hands with a smile. “I’d know better than to bring him and the Hellcat together, might put too much of a strain on such a fine and orderly establishment.”

A young man jumps out of the flashy red car and shouts, “Hey, St. Nick, I come to pray, you gonna let me in or should I go find somewhere else to burst into flames?”

“This’s the right church for you, if you got the offering to help me build that steeple I’ve been praying for,” the one-eyed man calls back, eyeing Tony dolefully. “Ben know you’re on your lonesome tonight?”

“Nah, slipped the leash, brought you some samples,” the youth shouts back, and then his face lights up as he shouts, “Hell, is that the Cat?! Oh, shit, is this crew- hey, Stark! Well, shit, this is the night to be at Shield, ain’t it?! Glad I come to church, lemme go park this boiler and join you.”

“Samples,” sighs the man- St. Nick- shaking his head and glaring up at Tony as the youth climbs back in his car and maneuvers it down the block. “Lord, remember when Reed was getting started up and I asked you, was it really the best idea to bankroll him?”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Tony states confidently.

“Yeah, but there are times I wish you were a little more right,” sighs the one-eyed man. He glances around at the assembled men and glares at Harley. “You behave, Cat, I don’t care whose son you are. Goose _likes_ my current crew.”

“I ain’t gonna start nothing tonight, Mr. Fury,” laughs Harley easily, head tilted at an angle, clearly watching for the other youth to be done messing with his car and join them. “All your men are safe as saints.”

The man grunts and eyes the crowd again. Tony’s smile widens. “Be like a damn blizzard inside,” grumbles the man. “Regulars won’t know where to look without being blinded by all that white.” 

“Aww, I like that,” teases Tony. “Your own personal blizzard, one night only, for old time’s sake.”

Fury frowns at the group in general before his gaze narrows to Peter. “This the kid Coulson was chewing my ear off about?”

Tony pushes Peter forward with one hand. “Peter Stark, meet Nick Fury. Told you about him, go shake.”

The man’s wide hand engulfs Peter’s for a moment, and the handshake is strictly business. “Well, you seem all right,” concedes Fury, with a frown for Peter. “Which is suspicious in its own right.”

“Angelside,” says Tony shortly. “Just have him down here as a treat, see Bessie.”

“Is that my woman?” demands Fury, suddenly, dropping Peter from his attention. “Is that my goddamn bearcat woman, standing there in a dress made to match _you_ , Stark? Listen, you brazen hussy,” he starts, before Natasha slips forward and puts a finger to his lips, smiling as the braver men in the small crowd join Harley in catcalling and hooting.

“Fury, I have missed you, too,” she says warmly, her rich accent shaping the words into a ritual phrase. “It has been too long, may I buy you a drink?”

“I’m dying, need holy water and a blessing,” cries the young man from the flashy red car, hanging on Harley, “and one for my young Cat, a saucer, a saucer, St. Nick, if you please.” Harley chuckles and doesn’t move to shake the other man off, Peter notes with interest.

“Lemme see your scratch first,” grunts Fury with another glare. 

“Aww, now, Nicky, don’t be like that,” protests the young man. “I ever left you a tab I ain’t paid? ...Eventually?”

“You all go on in, while I debate with Johnny whether or not he’s worth the hassle,” Fury tells Tony, and Tony chuckles, pushing Peter ahead of him.

“I’ll stay behind with Johnny,” Harley informs them cheerfully. “I got faith Fury’s wide warm heart will let Johnny make amends for whatever he did last time that’s got his nose outta joint.”

“Just a few busted chairs,” Johnny assures him. “Well, and that guy’s trumpet.”

“No!” gasps Harley. “Say you touched a hair on Louis’ head. Say it, and I’ll clock you myself. Man’s a treasure.”

“Nah,” laughs Johnny. “He knows how to duck.”

“Break it up,” says Nick shortly. “I ain’t running a comedy act. Go on in, Tony, and take all o’ these mugs with you.”

“Say, you gotta play doorman tonight, or you able to join me,” asks Tony, his face falling.

“Oh, I’ll be down, I just came up to greet you, as a matter of fact,” says Fury. “But now I see my man down the block is signaling, I’ll go check and join you as soon as I know what’s what.”

Tony nods and pushes Peter again, pressing him down the alley. Harley and Johnny are right behind them, and then Steve and Bucky, silent witnesses to all the commotion, and then the rest of the crew of Stark goons. Tony stops him in front of a door. Just, just a door, like any other door, wooden and rough-hewn. There’s a small cut-out box in the center at eye-height, Peter notices with interest. When Tony raps the door, a face appears behind the box and says, “Yeah, whaddaya?”

“No matter who wins or loses, trouble still comes around,” says Tony, with a smirk. Peter had practiced the catchphrase the entire ride over, just in case he had to go out and come back in, although Harley had laughed at the idea of Peter wandering around unescorted.

“Stark, as I live and breathe,” says the man, pulling the door open quickly.

“Good to see a good man, Mack,” says Tony easily, holding out a hand, “Put ‘er there.”

The man grips his hand eagerly and asks, “Coulson said you was bringing the new son?”

“Right here,” says Tony, pulling Peter forward. Peter stretches out a hand and finds the man’s grip just as eager for his shake as for Tony’s.

“Well, get down,” says Mack, shaking a thumb over his shoulder. “Bessie’s drinking yet, but she’ll be on soon’s she sees there’s a crowd.”

Tony nods easily and lopes down the stairs.

The basement bar, unlike the neighborhood outside, does not disappoint. The air is thick with smoke and underlaid with the sweet smell of soda and juice and alcohol. Black and silver curtains hang in every corner and behind the stage, and the bricks walls have been painted black. There are a few scattered black tables with silver chairs, around the outer edges, and a long bar across the far wall. The stage is already full with a band, playing hot licks of music that slide through the crowd. There’s a stir, as they enter, a murmur through the crowd. Many of the men and women present nod slowly and respectfully at Tony as he passes through. A few murmur greetings that he returns in kind. It has, thinks Peter, all the electric energy of a royal strolling through London court and it makes him a little dizzy to think they’ll note his face, note his place at Tony’s side tonight, and that’ll mean something to them, all these people he’s never met.

Tony leads the way to the back corner, where a table full of people stand abruptly and a man laughs, “Keepin’ it warm for ya, from the boss, Mr. Stark. Let’s split, gang, let ‘em get settled.” 

Tony smiles genially and gestures for Peter to sit in the chair next to him. Peter sits, and Steve sits beside him. Natasha slides into the chair on Tony’s other side, immediately draping herself over his shoulder to murmur something into his ear that makes him snort and eye the bar, where Harley and Johnny, and therefore Bucky, too, have made a beeline. Clint stands directly behind Natasha and Tony, taking two steps back until his back is framed by the corner, his eyes moving in an endless pattern as he watches the crowd. Peter’s never seen him at work before, but he thinks it would take a crazed sot to not be intimidated by those ice-cold blue eyes.

The rest of the men slide to the bar, following Harley, or stand against the walls behind the table, silent and watching. The ones Peter can catch out of the corner of his eyes look like cheap imitations of goons, beside Clint’s steely menace. Peter looks out over the crowd and catches faces turned away from the band, watching them warily. He looks back, trying to keep his face a blank study, like Coulson taught him to do before the management meeting. _Show nothing they can use against you_ , he’d told Peter, _an impossible task because they will try to use everything against you._ Peter reminds himself that he’s with Tony Stark, the Butcher of New York, the most dangerous man in the city, and he has nothing to fear from the people inside the Black Shield. He brought the danger _with_ him.

Natasha interrupts this train of thought by saying loudly, “Petya, you have had vodka, yes? From my mother Russia?”

Peter shakes his head and she tsks her tongue, frowning. “Tony,” she says seriously, “we must educate him.”

“Just you remember he’s got wings and not gills,” laughs Tony, his head starting to bob in time to the music.

Natasha laughs, low and rich, and says, “Yes, Boss,” like it’s a private joke they share, and slides off to the bar to tap Harley on the shoulder and shout something into his ear when he turns to her with a grin. Harley looks over at Peter and the grin broadens as he nods and then waves his hand even more impatiently for the barkeep. He’s already got five or six glasses of various sizes and colors in front of him, and no one else is getting served although, as Peter watches, he hands the glasses back to waiting hands so it’s more accurate to say no one else needs to give the fella their order.

Fury slides into the seat vacated by Natasha, which makes Peter marvel at his sheer moxie. “That was fast,” comments Tony. Fury grunts and says, “Was trying to warn me about Johnny. Day late.”

“Dollar short,” agrees Tony with a small smile. Fury grins back at him and then says, “Got a line on some new merchandise.”

“Thought you might have another angle,” chuckles Tony. “Usually don’t need to clap eyes on me in the flesh.”

“Yeah, supplier’s from across the drink, darker than me,” grunts Fury, “Not that you’d care.”

“Never have before, money spends the same no matter whose palms it’s crossed,” says Tony easily, his fingers tapping in time to the music. 

Harley ambles over to the table, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, carting a tray filled with drinks. “Here, Boss, your amber,” he says, sliding Tony a short tumbler with pale gold liquid and chips of ice floating in it.

“Fury,” Harley adds, with a nod to the man that has the man nodding back, bemused, “and got a matching one for Peter to try, it’s a brandy old-fashioned sweet, brother, Fury’s drink, always have what the owner likes at any gin joint, it’ll be the best one in the whole city.”

Peter takes that information in and leans forward. There’s orange rind and cherries in the drink, and when he takes a sip, it’s sweet and bitter. He nods thanks to Harley, who smiles back before taking his own and passing it to Peter, saying, “Sidecar, take a sip, oughta know the difference.”

Peter takes a sip and tries to memorize the flavor profiles of the two drinks as Johnny comes up, his own glass in hand, toes tapping to the music. “I’ve _got_ ta Charleston, Hellcat, you comin’?”

“Just whetting my whistle,” laughs Harley, and indeed, he chugs the sidecar. “Had to let the kid brother have his first sips under supervision before we can flap spats. You play it cool,” he tells Peter seriously. “Natasha’s bringing over some of that foreign firewater she likes, it goes down smooth but it’ll take you down fast, so you play it cool with Natasha and her foreign stuff.”

“I’m right here watchin’,” Steve says quietly and Peter watches Harley relax a little, remembering that fact.

“Right, yes, sure,” agrees Harley. “Yes. Okay, I’m gone,” he announces, and Johnny laughs, and then the two of them slide through the crowd to where the band is ripping through a song Peter doesn’t recognize.

Natasha captures Peter’s attention by sliding onto Tony’s lap, not put out at all by Fury in her chair. Tony and Fury continue to talk about trade and opportunities, but Peter only has eyes and ears and attention for Natasha, who smirks at him and holds up two glasses filled with a small amount of clear liquid. “This,” she announces, “is vodka. Sip it like this,” she says, and demonstrates taking a deep draught from the small glass.

Peter tries and he’s not sure he did it correctly, because “goes down smooth” isn’t at all how he’d describe it. Instead, it strips the top layer of skin off of his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He gasps, spluttering, and she smiles benevolently at him. She leans forward to rub at his shoulder and says smugly, “Now you know how we won the war.”

He nods at her, eyes watering. She commands, “Again, little Petya, another sip. We make a man out of you, eh?” 

Peter sighs, and takes another sip, which does seem to go down smoother, as her eyebrow raises in challenge, sipping her own small cup. He looks out over the small crowd of people on the dance floor and Natasha leans in to tell him, “I will take you out, when your legs are a little looser, and teach you how to do the Charleston.”

Peter nods at her and takes another sip as she laughs. “It will be fun, I promise you, Petya.”

~~~

She makes good on her promises after a few more drinks, grabbing him and dragging him out to the dance floor, where couples already energetically fling themselves around. Peter had been sitting at the back table, studying Harley and Johnny with their partners, and by the time she comes back for him, he thinks he already has a good idea of how not to fall on his face. His distance study pays off when Natasha laughs with delight and keeps him moving at a quick pace through two songs before demanding he stop and go back to the table with her, to down another drink. Peter’s head is swimming but Tony smiles sunnily up at him from beside Fury. Steve has shifted to stand next to Clint, and Bucky has taken up a post near to the dance floor. Peter can just see him in the dim light, a dark shadow against all of the flailing bodies.

“You good, Angel?” Tony asks, quiet enough that it’s no one elses’ business. Peter’s cheeks feel hot, his whole body feels hot, the smell of Tony’ cologne on his skin is overwhelming now that he’s stopped moving, but he nods back happily. This is the most fun he’s ever had, dancing with Natasha in the basement of this building, feeling light and bubbly and just a little dizzy, well, more than just a little dizzy, to be honest. But he feels good, and he’s having fun. 

“Lose the coat,” suggests Tony, and Peter’s eyes fly to his. Tony smiles broadly, and nods at him, “The bar’s dark, Harlem can handle one paleface kid in sleeves and a tight vest, son.” Peter nods, and slips the coat from his shoulders. Steve takes a step forward and assists, which Peter appreciates because he won’t know what to do with the coat once it’s off. Steve drapes it over the back of a chair with a quirk of his eyebrow at Peter that makes Peter smile back at him.

Without the coat, he doesn’t feel as hot, and that’s good, because keeping up with Natasha is thirsty work. Natasha tells him, “Roll the sleeves,” with a wicked smile before she takes her next sip. He slips the cufflinks from his cuffs and slides them into his vest pocket, and then struggles with his cuffs until Steves steps forward again to help him. Peter doesn’t look up at him, he can’t, the dizziness makes it hard just to stand near the man, if he’d look up, he’d _want_ , and everyone would see him standing there wanting. He mutters, “Thanks,” when Steve’s done, and Steve replies, clearly amused at something, “Pleasure’s mine, Angel.” 

Peter downs the drink Tony hands him without even tasting what was in it. It’s sweet and light, and wet, that’s all he cares about, that’s all he has time to care about, as Natasha places her glass on the table and leans down to kiss Tony’s cheek. He doesn’t think there was any liquor in it, though, because the aftertaste leaves no trace of hellfire on his tongue, and he’s grateful, because he’s dizzy enough, now.

“Well, good boy, keep her warmed up,” laughs Tony, as Natasha reclaims Peter’s hand and tugs him back out into the crowd.

Peter misses the first two or maybe three songs when Bessie hits the stage, because Natasha doesn’t even pause, she just keeps dancing, and therefore he does too. But after those first two or maybe three, the whole scene shifts and then it’s obvious Miss Smith is on stage. The music grows slow, sad, contemplative, and the wildly flailing limbs of the Charleston are abruptly out of place. Couples all over the dance floor sway closer, and Natasha is no exception, pressing into Peter’s space and instructing him, “Arms around me, this is a slow dance, and I don’t want to stop.”

Peter gapes at her, heart still pounding from the gyrations of the last half hour or so, because surely, surely Tony would be a better fit for this, a better choice.

Natasha shifts in, her hips slowly grinding as Bessie begins crooning about lost loves, making Peter’s head spin even more dizzily. She presses their cheeks together and murmurs into his ear, barely audible, “Mmm. You smell so much like Boss. Do you know what I love about this moment?”

Peter shakes his head and closes his eyes, breathing slowly through parted lips, trying to catch his breath and slow down his racing heart. He’s so dizzy, and hot, but Steve rolled up his sleeves and Tony said _lose the coat,_ not the vest, too.

“So many eyes on us, watching the bearcat and the boy. The eyes of the men I love best can watch their fill of us, too,” her fingers trail up his spine, Tony’s favorite line, Tony said he liked the cut of the vest right there, and then they slide, hot and heavy, down his sides, who had Tony said would like that line? Peter can’t remember, but it’s clear Natasha likes that line, because she trails her fingers up and down it again, while Peter holds her in his arms and breathes deeply, smelling Tony’s cologne and her perfume mingle in a perfect balance. She adds, after a moment of stroking his sides and deep breaths, “I love them to watch us here, where only I can touch.”

Peter shivers, thinking of how the hellfire burns in bright lines trailing behind each caress, thinking of all the eyes watching, watching and wanting, and how even Tony Stark can’t have what Natasha has, in this moment. She kisses the side of his head, just in front of his ear, and leans back, smiling wickedly as he opens his eyes. “Angel,” she says, tilting her head, “you have got a blush in there, really give ‘em a show? My Clint watches, and the Wolf.”

Peter can feel it slide up from his neck, soft and slow, as she trails a finger around his collar, undoes the pin, and slips it into his vest pocket. Without stopping, without hesitation, she starts to undo the tie around his neck. Her hips shift weight smoothly, keeping his body swaying to the rhythm as she slips the silk fabric back through the coils he’d so carefully placed earlier in the evening, before the firewater and the fireworks. She smiles up at him, wicked and bright, as she wraps the tie around his left wrist so many times and ties it securely there. Peter grunts, feeling dizzied again, and shakes his head to clear it as she pops the button at his collar and pushes his shirt open. 

“There, Petya,” she chuckles. “There, you look much less hot, so flushed, Petya. So hot, come dance with me a little more and then I’ll switch you out for Harley, and you can enjoy the show a little.”

She’s a shimmer of green glisten and gleam, in the low club lights, with the smoke of cigarettes haloed around her face, and Peter swallows before nodding, slowly, and wrapping his arms back around her in the way she’d shown him earlier, pulling her tight. She chuckles, low and throaty, and the blush slides back across his skin. She says, “So many people watching, but only one allowed to touch, just the way I like it, Petya. And I think my suggestion-“ she taps his wrist, with the tie around it- “-will have caught the attention of the right pairs of eyes. You’ll be in for a treat tonight, when our feet hit home.”

Peter glances wildly for Tony, but of course, with the dimness of the dance floor and the smoke, he can’t see him, can’t see if he’s _watching_.

Natasha laughs, a little breathlessly, and says, “Come, Petya, let’s show him. He’ll like it,” tugging him off the dance floor. 

She steers him through the tables and people in their way, back to the table in the corner. Tony, Peter notes, is leaned back in his chair, all alone, framed by the standing men behind him. He looks calm and regal as he watches them approach, his head tilted to hide- something- there’s something hidden there, Peter _knows_ it, but the man’s face gives away nothing.

“Fury have business?” asks Natasha, sliding her arms around Tony’s neck from behind as Peter slips into the chair to Tony’s right.

“Ran up with Johnny, samples,” Tony answers her, tilting his head back. She kisses him, hot and heavy, until he pulls her onto his lap and she makes a squeak of excitement. “Glad you came back, was watching,” he tells her, loud enough that Peter can hear him. Tony reaches a hand down and grab’s Peter’s wrist, setting his hand on the table and tapping the tie wrapped around it. “Giving me cues, darlin’?” he asks in a teasing tone.

“I would never presume,” she chuckles back, which makes him laugh and push her up as the music shifts again, the spell of the slow sad song shifting into hot licks again. “I go to dance with my Cat,” she says, downing the fresh drink at her spot, laughing at Tony’s expression. “You will watch us?”

“I will,” Tony assures her. “I’ve been watching, I promise, I haven’t missed a trick.”

She smiles at him and says, “This is why you are the Boss.”

He nods and lifts a glass of amber liquid to his lips, tilting it to sip and replying, “One of ‘em, yeah,” with a smile.

“One of many,” she confirms, before nodding at Peter and sashaying her way back out onto the dance floor.

Peter watches her go. Thanks to the better lighting in the dance area, he can watch her walk up to Harley and watch Harley drop the hands of the girl he’s currently dancing with like they’ve become red hot pokers. Harley and Natasha exchange grins, hands reaching for each other, and then they’re flying through the quick forms of the Charleston together. It’s clear that they’re regular partners, they do a lot of trick moves that make Peter’s jaw drop a little.

“Here,” says Tony, sliding him another drink, “Got another brandy for you, Angel. Last one, I think, we’ll leave them to dance it out all night in an hour or two. You’re not used to our hours, you’ll be wilting soon, and I want you awake enough when we get home. Shouldn’t leave Steve here too, long, either, he’ll already be coughing for days.”

Peter’s mouth goes dry, abruptly, and he nods, nods like they’re going to go home and look at books and numbers, and do calculations. He picks up the drink Tony slides to him, sipping it cautiously, and watches Harley throw Natasha around on the edge of the dance floor. Under the table, where no one can see, Tony places his hand on Peter’s thigh, squeezes, and then murmurs, “Looked good out there, dancing with the wild woman. Watched Bucky near swallow his tongue when she started touching.”

Peter tosses his head and thinks, _That’s not possible_ , because Bucky is a dark shadow against the wall, watching the colorful dancers and their antics. He’s not, Peter can barely see him from here. But then he thinks of how Tony notices the details and maybe he can read things in the man’s posture that Peter can’t, yet.

Tony sits back in his chair, his hand sliding from Peter’s thigh as smoothly as it had slid onto it. “Yeah, one, maybe two more songs.” He raises a hand and Steve is there, by his side, in a heartbeat.

“Yes, Boss?” ask Steve, low and respectful.

“One more song, send a guy to tell the driver to get the car ready.”

“Yes, Boss,” says Steve, and Peter doesn’t think he’s imagining the relief. Steve hasn’t coughed yet, but Peter believes them when they say he will, the smoke is getting thicker and thicker with every passing hour. Steve walks over to the last man on the wall and Peter turns his attention back out to the dancers.

“She can go all night,” muses Tony, leaning forward, taking a sip of his drink again. “She can go all night tonight, after she went hours last night, too. Her and Hellcat, both. Never get enough music, the two of them. You enjoy yourself out there? Looked it.”

Peter smiles and nods. “Yes, sir, it was so fun. I figured it out fast enough, I think.” He shakes his head and chuckles, “Now, watching them two, can’t help but feel I was probably not up to her normal speed of things.”

Tony laughs and then scoffs, “Nobody’s up to that dame’s speed of things. Well, maybe Clint. But he’s working for me, tonight, not working on keepin’ up with her.”

Peter nods, and taps his fingers to the music, sipping his drink. He lets the smooth, rich tones of Bessie’s voice wash over him, where it mingles pleasantly with the sweet and bitter taste of the drink in his mouth. He feels dizzy and light and liquid, exhilarated and like there’s a hum in his bones.

The song slides into the next one, and Tony stands like he’s on springs, snapping his fingers for Peter. “Let’s go, Angel, hoof it,” he orders, and Peter stands, much more clumsily, dropping his mostly-empty drink to the table. Steve reaches a hand out to steady Peter, and lifts his coat from the back of the chair. Peter holds out a hand, offering to take it, but Steve shakes his head.

“You got her?” Tony asks Clint, and Clint nods, serious, his eyes fixed on the dance floor, darting, always darting, Peter believes he’s got everyone in his head, all mapped out, all of the angles and movements straight through the crowd to the band on the far side of the room. “Leavin’ you the Sergeant. I’m taking Cap with me.”

Clint nods, again, and then cracks a smile at Peter. “You looked good, Angel,” he tells Peter. “Bucky about choked when she reached up and undid your tie.”

Peter ducks his head a little, self-consciously, but Tony claps his hands on Peter’s shoulders and says, “Give my regards to Fury, let him know we’re taking care of Cap’s lungs and getting him outta here before he causes a ruckus.”

Clint snorts and nods confirmation that he can deliver that message.

“Let’s split,” Tony says, again, and the three of them turn as one for the door.

~~~

The car ride home is quiet and calm, although Peter notes that the driver and lookout check the mirrors several times. Tony and Steve stare out the windows beside them, but Peter catches the driver’s eyes in the mirror several times by accident because he’s sandwiched between them with nowhere to look but straight ahead. Steve starts coughing as soon as they hit clear air, and then again several times in the car. Tony watches him during a long fit and says, “Know you don’t like the syrup, but if you take it tonight, it’ll make tomorrow that much easier.”

“Yeah,” croaks Steve, rubbing a hand over his face. He chuckles, a little weakly, and mutters, “But consider who’s coming to bed.”

Tony grimaces and says, “Think you should anyway, Cap. Won’t make it an order, wouldn’t do that, but still. Think you should anyway.”

“Yeah,” sighs Steve, and then coughs some more, quietly. “Well, there’s always the couch.”

It’s one of the calmer car rides Peter has had since one week before he signed his new name, without Harley there, so he has no idea why he feels more full of tension with each building they pass in the full dark of the night. 

They pull up to the steps of the mansion and Steve spills out first, holding the door and hiding another coughing fit in the sleeve of his jacket. Peter slides out and stands beside him as Tony exits, nervous for no reason. Tony gives him a toothy grin as he passes, snapping his fingers once for Peter to stay at his heels.

They navigate the dark hallways to the back staircase in mostly-silence, broken only by Steve’s raspy cough, and climb slowly and steadily up to the family floor. When the door closes, Tony whirls and presses Peter into the wall. Peter squeaks in surprise, and then gasps as Tony slides close and insinuates a knee between Peter’s legs. “Been wanting,” Tony growls, and then his hands are sliding under Peter’s jaw to wrap around Peter’s skull and that’s all the warning Peter gets before he’s kissing Tony, hot and heavy, in the hallway with Steve looking on.

Peter thought he was dizzy spinning in circles with Natasha at the club, her smokey eyes laughing at him with delight, but that was nothing, that was nothing compared to this moment with Tony, in the darkened hallway with Tony’s hands wrapped around his skull and Tony’s tongue licking into his mouth. He thought he was breathless kicking and jiving with her, but he can’t get enough air, right now, can’t suck enough in to feel like anything but drowning, gasping into the edges of the kiss when Tony lets him. Steve wheezes a little, standing there, standing nearby, but Tony ignores him, and Peter isn’t capable of opening his eyes even just to check that the man is still alive. Tony takes up all of his attention, Tony’s tongue and Tony’s lips, and the insistent press of his hips to Peter’s own.

Eventually, though, all good things must come to an end, and Tony releases him, stepping back abruptly, letting Peter fall against the hall wall, reeling. Tony wipes his mouth and swears, “Hellfire and damnation, kid. Needed that.”

Steve vents a wheezy chuckle and says, “Could do with one myself, you don’t mind, Boss.”

“Not at all, have at,” laughs Tony, stepping back another pace. Peter thinks wildly that someone ought to ask _him_ for a change, but he knows it’s a wild thought even before Steve’s lips descend on his.

Steve’s kiss is less demanding, it always seems to be, more slow, more gentle, but no less deep, no less heartfelt. He breaks it off to step back, coughing and chuckling with the same breath. “All right, thanks, Boss,” he chokes. “You be good to Tony, Angel, he was real good about letting you have fun tonight.”

Peter nods, panting a little. Tony growls, “Take the damn syrup,” at Steve. His eyes, when Peter glances over at him, are dark and full of shine.

Steve shakes his head. “Gonna have a bed fulla riled up Cat and Buck won’t be settled after tonight, neither.”

“Cat can go down with Tasha and Clint, and Buck can go, too, for all I care,” says Tony fiercely, and Peter swallows as the two men face off, their bodies full of sudden tension in the dark, quiet hallway. “You been coughing since we hit air.”

“Always do,” argues Steve shortly, his words punctuated by short coughs and gasps for air. “Always have done. Your dad’s treatment was fine, Stark, almost a complete cure, but allow me to know my own limits where it don’t quite cover all of it.”

“Fuck your own limits,” says Tony, taking a step closer. “You’re a damnfool hard-headed stubborn man. Know I said I wasn’t gonna order you but I’m changin’ my mind, watching you be stubborn, thinking with your dick instead of your skull.”

Steve squares up to him, there, in the hallway, and Peter looks between them wildly, wondering what he should do, what he _can_ do, what needs to be done to calm them down. 

“Stark, you know what I’d do with an order like that,” warns Steve and Peter winces, mind racing, as they stand with their toes almost touching now, noses inches apart.

“Follow it,” sneers Tony, which makes Steve’s jaw clench and okay, Peter has to try something, anything, this is _bad_ , this is so bad.

“S-steve,” he says, hesitantly, flinching when the men’s heads turn to glare at him. “What’s wrong with the syrup, that you don’t like it, if it helps?”

“Knocks him on his ass, out cold for at least eight,” says Tony curtly. “Stubborn fool thinks he can just push through bad lungs.”

Peter looks up at Steve, who coughs, taking a step to the side so that he’s not coughing directly into Tony’s face. Tony’s hand twitches, like it wants to reach up and pat Steve on the back and Peter thinks, _Do it_. But it just twitches, and falls back to his side. So Peter slides in closer and tells Steve in a quiet, intense voice, “You take care of me. You carried me around for a week, Steve, because of blisters. Wouldn’t let me _walk_ , Steve.”

Steve looks down at him and then rolls his eyes, “Yeah, but you’re Angel. Doc’s orders, anyway.”

“Doc didn’t order it. Doc said they’d heal up faster that way,” Peter reminds him, keeping his body loose, unthreatening, as he steps even closer, trying to get Steve to understand what he’s saying. “Was _your_ orders I needed to heal up fast. Was _your_ orders I needed to have the best care.”

Steve stares back at him so Peter plunges on, “That’s all we want, Steve. Just trying to make sure you have the best care, too. I let you carry me around a whole week, Steve, didn’t fight you back even once. Knew you just wanted to take care, knew it was helping you out.”

Steve chokes, coughing again, and Peter slides an arm up his back, cautious, rubbing gently. Steve lets him, eyes a little wild, shaking his head. “No,” Peter says, trying to mimic Steve’s own soothing tone. “Now you let us. Let us take some care. Promise me. Promise me and Tony, you’ll look out for you the way you look out for us. Carried me around for a whole week, Steve, when it was just blisters. And I let you.” He looks up into the other man’s face, willing him to see it’s only fair, only fair he take the syrup and take care of himself, too.

Steve chuckles, although it turns into a coughing fit that lasts for a long minute. When he gets his first good deep breath, he says, “Well, hell, Stark. Who thought teaching the kid Coulson’s tricks was a good idea?”

“Pepper,” says Tony firmly. He hesitates a second and then says in a quiet voice, “And all that’s what I woulda said if I’d’ve thought of it, Steve. Just want- wish to hell Howard’s treatment had taken care of it, left you with lungs you could _trust_.” His eyes blaze up at Steve, whose lips twitch in a smile.

“Can trust ‘em fine, it’s just smoke does it, Tony. Used to seize up just walkin’, some days,” Steve says on a sigh, shaking his head. 

“Hate that cherry stuff,” Steve tells Peter, but his lips twitch just a little, just enough for Peter to know he’s winning this one. “Sticks to your throat, you know.”

“Hated being carried,” agrees Peter easily, nodding. He tries to throw all of his gratitude into the look he gives Steve.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t need the sermon,” sighs Steve. He looks down at Peter and says, “One more kiss, then, if I gotta take my medicine, want some sugar to help it down.”

Peter nods, and Steve lifts a hand, tilting Peter’s chin up, nibbling at his lips a little before sliding the kiss deeper. They kiss for a long moment before Steve begins coughing, again, turning his head away and covering his mouth with a hand.

“Enough sugar?” asks Peter, a little anxious for Steve to take the medicine if it’ll help. It does strange things to him to see Steve not be solid and strong, to think of him with weak lungs. “Enough sweet?”

“Enough,” confirms Steve, eyes twinkling as he taps Peter’s lips with a finger. “Just enough.” He straightens, pushes Peter towards Tony. “All right, Boss, white flag. I can’t hold out against your new negotiator. I concede.”

Tony laughs, and if it’s tinged with relief, Peter and Steve ignore it. “Best gift Harley ever got me, I’m thinking.”

“I agree,” says Steve, and then he backs away, one hand reaching for the door to his room.

“Promise?” calls Peter. “You promise, Captain?”

“Yeah, yeah, Angel,” chuckles Steve. “I promise, I’ll take the damn syrup.”

Peter sighs, and leans back into Tony, and Steve shakes his head, chuckling, as he opens the door to his room.

“Sleep well, Cap,” Tony calls as the chuckling turns into another coughing fit. They stand there for a minute before he plucks his fingers on Peter’s shirt at his shoulder and says, “Just the balance we needed, you know that?” 

He turns Peter so that they stand, in the center of the hallway, and he runs his hands up Peter’s sides, slowly. “Just exactly what we needed, all these years. Someone sweet enough to make us see sense. Got Pepper for smarts and Steve for strength, need you for the sweetness.”

Peter frowns up at him and says, “I got strength, too. And smarts.”

“Yeah,” says Tony, smile flashing. “Got the whole package.” He leans down, then, and kisses Peter gently, knuckles sliding across the smooth skin of Peter’s cheeks. His trim pencil mustache tickles Peter’s nose and Peter vents a chuckle into the kiss.

“Is this a thank you for negotiating?” teases Peter. “Because I notice you were bent on fighting, and Coulson says-”

Tony huffs, “Damn Coulson, I don’t care about Coulson, get into your room, Angel.” He slaps Peter’s hip and then turns them, pushing Peter in front of him. “Got plans for you,” he says, and Peter swallows, looking back at Tony as his feet carry him forward. Tony’s fast fingers are undoing his tie pin, dropping it into his vest, before they reach the door to Harley’s room. As Peter turns the knob to let them in, he’s tugging his tie off, loosening the knot to pull it up and over. He drapes it over the couch while Peter pauses awkwardly in the middle of the room, uncertain, turning to Tony for guidance on what next.

Tony shrugs out of his coat, next, tossing it over the tie and saying, “Grab the hook, get us out of these spats.” Peter snaps into motion, heading to the dresser, and grabs the two buttonhooks there. He hands one to Tony and decides to try to race the man, try to make his own movements as efficient as Tony’s as he unhooks his spats. He loses the race by three buttons and looks up from the last one to see Tony smiling at him in clear amusement. “You in a hurry, kid?” he asks huskily. “Must not have any idea what I plan on doing, Angel.”

Peter shivers and stares back at him, frozen. Tony glides closer, hands rising to cup Peter’s cheeks. He pulls Peter to him for a long slow kiss and then tells him, “Heel outta them shoes, now.”

Peter nods, feeling breathless, and toes out of his shoes, letting them fall wherever. He can get them in the morning. Tony works his own cufflinks off, tucking them in his vest pocket, before popping his vest buttons and sliding out of that, too, letting it fall on top of his coat. He reaches out and starts unbuttoning Peter’s vest, popping the buttons slowly, fingers caressing down to undo the next one. Peter shivers a little, and says, “I can-”

“No,” chides Tony in a barely audible voice, fast hands working smoothly, “you made your point clear in the hallway. Time I took care of you right, you been taking care of me.” Peter trembles a little as Tony slides the vest down his arms, catching at the elbows on his rolled shirt sleeves a little. “Ah,” says Tony, slipping it off carefully. “Little tight, there.”

Peter nods and swallows, as Tony’s hands work their way up to his suspenders, sliding them down and then untucking Peter’s shirt, slow and smooth, like Peter is a gift he’s unwrapping to save the paper. “Yeah, I think I been neglectin’ you, all this catchin’ up I been doing with the business side of life,” muses Tony. “Here Harley got this gift for me, and I ain’t _appreciated_ it like I mean to.”

Peter shakes his head, negating this, his mouth dry. He feels still, that calm stillness he always gets this close to Tony, when they’re alone. Tony smiles at him, a short sharp thing, and unbuttons Peter’s shirt casually, saying, “Know you don’t have the kinda life that leaves you with expectations, but it’s true, Peter Stark. I like my people to stay because they want to stay, I like ‘em kept happy, and all I done with you so far is bought you some ice cream the once and had some catnaps. Mean to fix that tonight.”

Peter stares up into Tony’s eyes as the man slips the shirt from his shoulders, tosses it on the couch back. He licks his dry lips and Tony’s attention is caught, one hand rising to press his thumb there, where Peter’s tongue had flashed. “Know you don’t know what I mean,” Tony assures him gently. “Know you can’t, Angel that you are, uneducated, like Harley says. But I’m going to make you feel good, Angel. I’m a busy man, but I keep my people happy, and I don’t mean to nap with you tonight.” 

He lifts Peter’s hand, slowly unwinding the tie Natasha had wrapped there. “There’ll be time for this on another night,” he says, darting a dark glance to Peter’s face. Peter lets his confusion show a little and Tony chuckles, wicked smile flashing across his features. “Yeah, still a little Angel just yet, don’t know none of that wicked stuff, but Natasha’s got plans, Angel.” He tosses the tie and smiles, saying, “I know you’ll like it, promise, Angel. Some day, when it’s right. Not tonight."

Peter nods at him, happy to agree, as Tony slides his own suspenders off and begins working the buttons on his own shirt. “You drop them slacks, toss ‘em,” Tony directs, his voice low and harsh. “Won’t need ‘em, Angel, for what we’ll be doing. Get rid of them hose, too, won’t need stockings, neither.”

Peter slides out of his slacks and tosses them over the couch back, and then works the buckles of his garters. Tony’s fast movements have him sliding his own hose down to pool on the floor in small heaps before Peter’s done with his. Peter swallows as he rises to stand in front of Tony, acutely conscious of the air on his back, his chest, his legs. He’s dizzy again, he thinks, but dizzy with something else. 

Tony’s drawers are tented just a bit, and Peter’s not looking, but he can’t help noticing it, standing as close as they are. Tony smiles at him, swift and sudden, a flash of teeth in the dimness. Peter is grateful to whoever left the lamps on, just a bit, for the soft glow that fills the room, makes it so he can see Tony when he strides forward and closes the gap between them and pulls Peter in for another kiss. 

Tony hums into the kiss after a moment or two, and then pulls back long enough to say, teasingly, “Decisions, decisions. Always wanted to try out a bunk bed. Never had the brother for it. Harley’s been filling my head with his talk about what all he thinks he can get up to in it.” Peter pants up at him, thinking of all of the things Harley’s told _Peter_ about what he wants to happen in that lower bunk. “Nah, leave that for him,” decides Tony, nipping at Peter’s lips. “Take the bed tonight. Here, go lock that door, not sure how far behind us they’re gonna be, mood that Tasha was in.”

Peter nods and scrambles to go lock the door, catching back up to Tony as Tony takes off his rings and lays them on the bedside table. “Take ‘em off,” he directs Peter, nodding to Peter’s hands. “You can get ‘em back to Tasha tomorrow.”

Peter swallows, and slips them off of his fingers, leaning forward to put them next to Tony’s on the table. Tony chuckles, sliding a hand down Peter’s back, stepping forward when Peter twitches. “Little nervy, aren’t you?” he teases. “Here I thought you looked so loose at the gin joint, thought you’d be looser still here, but you’re fulla twitches, ain’t ya?”

Peter shrugs and turns to face him, his heart sinking just a little. “Can’t help it, sir,” he tells Tony slowly. 

“Nah, I like it, no need to apologize,” says Tony confidently. “Me and Bucky’re cut from the same cloth, there. Like you wide eyed, just a little. Here, tumble down, lay flat.” He presses a hand to Peter’s chest and pushes him onto the bed. “Won’t need those,” he says in irritation, sliding Peter’s drawers down and tossing them to the end of the bed. Peter gasps as his dick twitches just a little and Tony smiles, wickedly, down at him.

Tony sits, then, beside him, leaning over him and putting one hand by Peter’s hip. “Now, let’s see, I’ve had Harley mouth you a bit, and Bucky’s been shaving you-” he runs a finger around the smooth skin of Peter’s crotch and thigh, careful not to touch the rapidly hardening erection. Peter bites his lip and looks up into Tony’s teasing gaze. “-I know you can kiss, getting better at that every day. Oh, I know what I want to see.” His gaze sharpens, and Peter gasps, tossing his head a little, shocked at how he can almost feel the look against his skin, lapping like hellfire there, pooling in the shadows of every dip of flesh. 

“Not gonna dirty you up too much, promised Hellcat I’d bottle it up, let him bear the brunt of it, he loves that, you know,” says Tony conversationally. “But that don’t mean I can’t enjoy a show. And you’re going to give me one, baby boy,” he says firmly. Peter stares back at him, wondering what he means, what exactly Tony could be asking- telling- him to do. “Slide a hand down, baby, show me how you take care of yourself.”

Peter stutters back at him, “D-don’t, just the once, T-tony.”

“Just the once?” asks Tony, incredulous. “Just the one time you ever put your hand on yourself? Don’t believe it,” he says bluntly, and Peter thinks wildly of the time in the bathroom with Bucky, before church, Bucky telling him to take care of it. “Know you’re shy but there’s no reason to lie, baby boy. Ain’t shameful or dirty, a nice sweet angel like you doing what’s natural.”

Peter shakes his head and Tony murmurs in a warning tone, “Don’t like to think you’d lie to me.”

“‘M _not_ ,” insists Peter. “I slept in a dorm, Tony, all full up with fellas, little ones, too. And then, there was the one night and one other time, but I haven’t, Tony, I don’t know what- how to-” he falls silent as Tony frowns a little down at him, clearly thinking this through.

“Well, hell, Angel,” laughs Tony. “Harley really did pick out an angelbaby, didn’t he? Late bloomer, I’d say, time and more than time for you to learn this about yourself. Don’t mind watching. Don’t mind helping, although that defeats the purpose a little.” He smiles at Peter, playfully. Peter gulps back at him and nods. He’s _willing_ , he just doesn’t want to _disappoint_ , and some of that emotion must translate through because Tony laughs and says, “Sit up, c’mere, give me a kiss.”

Peter sits up so quickly his head spins dizzy again, and he’s glad Harley’s been making him practice kissing because he can almost ignore the mechanics of kissing to think about what Tony said he wanted. He can almost ignore them, except it’s Tony, and Tony’s demanding. He gasps when Tony’s hand moves from the bed to Peter’s dick, and wraps around it, squeezing a little. Tony chuckles and says, “Shh, baby, won’t hurt, promise,” and then Peter’s being kissed again, so deeply he forgets about the hand and what it’s doing, how it moves just a little, short little rhythmic jerks.

Tony breaks the kiss to lean their foreheads together and whisper, “You like that, Angel, you gotta say. Gotta say thanks so I know it’s good and you’re grateful for it.”

“Thank you, Tony,” whispers Peter immediately, the words catching in his throat mid-pull from Tony’s hand. Tony’s breathing goes a little ragged, suddenly, and Peter says with a small amount of wonder, his eyes opening to look up at the other man, “Thank you, Tony.”

A shudder runs through Tony and Peter’s brain begins to race, wondering, wondering all kinds of things, making connections quickly between actions and words and motivations, the way Coulson taught him. He makes a decision about what he thinks is happening, and leans back slowly, shifting against the pillows. “Thank you, Tony,” he murmurs again, shifting his hips up, just a little, just a little wantonly, the way Harley likes him to do. “Thank you,” he says again, trying to put all the gratitude and desire for more into his eyes that he feels, as he looks up at Tony, up and over at Tony, sitting beside him.

“Shit, Angel,” says Tony. “You learning how to hit a man’s blind spots, are you? Clint teaching you that, or Harley? Or Steve?”

“You,” says Peter, feigning a calm confidence he doesn’t feel. He watches the word sink in, spin Tony just a little, the man is visibly shaken, and thinks of Coulson saying, _then you got ‘em in the palm of your hand_. He didn’t understand it then, but he thinks this is that, that even though he’s in Tony’s hand, Tony’s in the palm of _his_ hand, right now. “You, Tony, _thank_ you. You’re teaching me, Tony. _Thank_ you.”

“Shit, Angel,” swears Tony, leaning forward, his hand working on Peter’s flesh just a little tighter, a little faster, causing Peter to gasp, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, that’s enough of that,” says Tony gruffly, “Didn’t mean for you to-”

“Thank you, Tony,” interrupts Peter breathlessly, watching how it makes Tony twitch, just a little. “You’re so good to me, Tony. Thank you.”

Tony looks down at him and growls wordlessly, then, and shifts, sliding forward to lay next to Peter on the bed, his hand changing grips, changing angles, but still shifting, still pulling on Peter’s dick in that same steady rhythm. His dick rubs against Peter’s hip, the fabric stretched over it slick and wet and he grunts a little. “Say it again,” he tells Peter roughly.

“Thank you, Tony,” repeats Peter, putting as much emotion into it as he can. He leans over and kisses Tony’s lips, closed-mouthed, and whispers, “For steak, and for ice cream. For them bunk beds, for Harley. For Steve, Tony, thank you. And thank you for naps, and rings, and them cufflinks. Thank you for all them blowjobs with Harley, and kisses, and thank you for making me- for what Bucky does with me.”

Tony chuckles and teases, his eyes dark, pupils blown, “I heard you hated it, beg him every day not to do it.”

“I do, and he likes it better that way,” says Peter, realizing how true it is as he says it. Tony draws in a quick breath and thrusts a little against Peter’s hip and grunts, “Oh, is that so, baby boy? You been playing him?”

“No,” Peter tells him, willing him to see the honesty in Peter’s eyes. “And I won’t be playing tomorrow when I beg him not to, either. I just know he likes it that way, likes it better that way, Tony. You gave him that, so thank you, Tony. He won’t remember, never heard him say it, acts like it’s a chore or a job you gave him, but I’ll do it. I’ll remember. Thank you, Tony.”

Tony huffs a breath, and then says, “Angel, you better be careful. Never had so much appreciation in my life. Don’t know what it’ll do to me.”

“Gonna be good to you,” argues Peter, gasping, words coming raggedly as Tony’s hand pulls more and more strands of tension and hellfire directly from Peter’s spine, his back arching a little at intervals into the grip. “That’s the equation, ain’t it? I’m good to you, so you’re good to me? Well, I’m going to be so good for you, Tony, gonna remember to thank you. Gonna remember for every time they don’t.”

Tony’s breathing is ragged as he says, gruffly, “Don’t need it. Not why I do it.”

“Never said you did need it,” corrects Peter gently. He thrusts up, because it feels so good, Tony’s hand on his dick, the slow and steady pulls, but he wants more, now, can feel how that slow lick of flame could build just a bit higher if Tony would move just a little faster. “Just said I wanted to do it. Thank you, Tony. You take care of me, you take care of all of us, so good, we’re so good, Tony, because of you. Thank you, Tony.” His words are turning into whines, he realizes, but it feels so good, Tony’s hand, tugging, pulling, it feels so _good_.

“Whining for me, baby, so good, Angel,” growls Tony quietly, in Peter’s ear. “This is what I want you for, this, Angel, say it some more.” He thrusts against Peter’s hip.

“Tony, Tony,” whimpers Peter. “Thank you, Tony, _thank you_.”

“Good baby, good Angel, my sweet one,” hisses Tony, raising up on one elbow to look down at Peter, his dick twitching against Peter’s hip. “So sweet, watching you in that smokey basement, cheeks all flushed, you dancing with the devil woman herself. Watched Bucky watch you, watched Steve squirm, everybody thinking we’re all of us with eyes on the woman when we’re all watching your slim little half-man body be put through its paces. Lord, she showed you off, kept flicking me glances so I’d know it, too. Had some fun running her hands everywhere, right where mine wanted to be and couldn’t.”

Peter’s gasping now, gasping in time to every pull, as Tony nuzzles his neck, drops kisses there, on Peter’s neck, shoulder, cheek, ear, everywhere he can reach easily, just by bending his head. “Watched Bucky near swallow his tongue to keep from panting at you when Bessie switched up the mood and started wailing about all the things she can’t have, and Tasha set out to show him what he couldn’t have. Watched that man twitch at the end of the line she was throwing out, stirring them deep waters. Watched you, too, dangling there, sweet bait. Lord, had to grip my drink tight, then, Steve twitching beside me. Grateful Johnny was there to keep Harley distracted, or he’d have been filling my head with all kinds of things.” 

It’s poetry, Peter thinks, shifting his hips, thrusting just a little, just to release some of the tension built up in his thighs. It’s a kind of poetry, the way Harley and Tony talk, the way they use words to mess with him, to mess with each other. The words mean more when they’re said in those raspy desire-roughened voices, the words mean more and they hit harder. 

“Got you all hot and bothered, now,” says Tony smugly. “Gonna keep you that way, little Angel, I like you all hot and bothered, you hear me?” 

“Yes, T-tony,” stutters Peter, and then immediately, “th-thank you, Tony.”

Tony hums, now, and presses kisses to Peter’s temple. “Yeah, I like that, didn’t know how much ‘til I heard you say it, saw you understood it, got it deeper than anyone else ever has.”

Peter nods, writhing a little as Tony smirks down at him, slowing his pace just a little, enough for Peter to let out a wordless whine and close his eyes, hips seeking more. “Nah, nah,” teases Tony, “I said keep you like this awhile yet, got all night. I know you’ve heard me with Harley, make him yowl all night if I want’a, been many’s the night he was crying at dawn, still.”

Peter shivers, thinking about that, and Tony laughs, “Oh, I know you’re not built like him, can’t take that kind of treatment, need it gentler, but you will, baby boy, you will someday, we’ll work up to it.” His eyes are wickedly sharp on Peter’s, full of laughter and mischief as he presses kisses to Peter’s cheek and murmurs, “Buck up a little, Angel, want to watch you.”

Peter thrusts up, grunting, gasping, and then lets his head fall back, as he mumbles, “Thank you, Tony, feels so good, thank you,” hellfire running up and down his spine.

“Yeah, just like that,” murmurs Tony. “You feel my hand on you, pulling it out of you?”

Peter nods and gasps, “Thank you, Tony.”

“Want to watch you, though, baby boy, told you that. Now I got you started, want to watch you, so you slide that hand down here, want to see you spill in your own hand,” says Tony, playfully stern. 

Peter stares back at him, shocked, until a shark-like smile crosses Tony’s face and he says, “Oh, you thought I was done playing games, huh, Angel? Thought I didn’t need them blushes as much as I do? Well, hate to disappoint, but I’m still part wolf, baby, and I want what I want.”

“Yes, Tony,” says Peter quickly, sliding a hand down across his hip, to join with Tony’s hand. Tony’s hand wraps around Peter’s and guides it through the rhythm. 

“There, like that, you manage that?” he asks Peter gruffly. Peter nods, gasping, and he knows a blush is sliding around his whole body by the weight of the shame against his skin, and the way Tony smirks down at him, releasing his hand to trail the leading edge of the red as it creeps across Peter’s pale flesh. “Good Angel,” whispers Tony, his eyes snapping back up to Peter’s face. “You hate it, dontcha? Hate that I’m watching you, saw that in the bathroom with that first shave.”

Peter nods, helplessly honest under that dark, mesmerizing gaze.

“Yeah, I like that,” confesses Tony. “Like that you’ll do it anyway, like that you have to force it through. You feel free, you wanna drop any of them tears I can see swimming around at the thought of it, you drop ‘em, I’ll like that, too. Still feel like thanking me, Angel, baby?” he teases.

Peter nods and whispers, although it makes shame slide up his spine and near choke him, closing his eyes on the embarrassment of what his hand is still doing, how it feels, with Tony _watching_ , “Th-thank you, Tony.

“Fuck,” says Tony, his voice shocked, darting forward to slide his tongue between Peter’s lips in a deep, possessive kiss. “Fuck, Angel,” he swears again. Peter’s gasping up into his mouth before he’s done, gasping and thrusting, just a little, when Tony says roughly, “Slow down, you hear me, you make it last, tease yourself, Angel, I mean it.”

Peter loosens his grip immediately, hand slowing down, and whines, hates that he’s whining, hates that he needs more, hates that he listens instead of just making himself spill.

Tony grabs his chin in a tight grip and says, “Eyes open, wanna see ‘em.”

Peter flutters his eyes open and then gasps, because Tony’s eyes are dark and intent and shiny, full on his face, shocking. “Yeah, baby,” says Tony slowly. “You’re just right for me, Harley stumbled on a diamond down there in that dirty flop. You’ll give me what I want anyway, all these blushes, them tears. Go ahead, let ‘em spill a little, don’t you know I’m watching you? I’m _watching_ , Peter Stark, watching what you’re doing, don’t you know that?” The shame rises up, until Peter’s gasping from it, and then he says, lowly, so that Peter has to strain to hear him, “Don’t you know daddies don’t play this way with their sons, Peter, little orphan Peter? You ain’t my son, Peter Stark, but I gave you my name, and the whole world thinks you are. Don’t you know what they’d say, any of ‘em, if they saw you right now, Peter Stark?” 

Peter shudders and the tears fall because he can picture it, he can picture what people would say, how they’d say he was wrong and it was wrong, how it’s disgusting, how the Starks carry on. Tony’s built a bubble around these rooms, with his wealth and his power, but Peter knows just outside that safety is a whole world of shock and disgust waiting, if anyone ever found out what Peter does for this man. If anyone found out he _thanked_ this man for doing it.

“Yeah,” says Tony, smug satisfaction coating his voice. “Yeah, there’s my tears, there’s what I want. Hellcat ain’t got no shame, fucks his skirts in alleys if he feels like it, I know he’s got some stableboys who bend over for him when he clucks his tongue, but you’re finer than that. You were raised right, same as me. You know it’s wrong, what we’re doing, don’t you, Peter Stark?”

Peter shakes, and whispers back, “Yes, Tony,” his voice clogged with tears although his hand doesn’t falter and his dick screams for more touch, more thrust.

“And you’ll do it anyway, won’t you, Angel, for Daddy, you’ll do it anyway, look at you,” murmurs Tony with that same smug tone of voice. “Can’t help yourself, can’t stop, can you? I can’t play this game with Harley, he can’t do it right, he doesn’t know enough to know it’s _wrong_. Tried it, he tries it, but it’s all a laugh to him, just words. I don’t want laughs, not for this.” His words are slow and careful, weighted strangely, and Peter is shocked by how much he can read in Tony’s face, in his dark eyes, unquietly holding Peter’s gaze. Tony’s lips quirk a twisted smile and he nods, once, a small twitch of a movement, watching Peter watch him. 

“You’re not laughing, are you, sweet baby, you know it’s wrong,” he says slowly, and Peter nods, licking his lips, because he does, there’s something so wrong, because Tony’s not his daddy, but when he says _baby boy_ , it lights up something deep inside Peter. Peter could live his whole life without that bright burning heat and shame, would happily live his life without it. But then there’s Tony, Tony and this moment, Peter’s hand on his own dick, tugging, letting Tony watch, because he can’t not, he can’t not give Tony what Tony wants. And what Tony wants is this shameful thing between them, apparently, because he continues in that same quiet, contemplative tone, with weighted words, “Wrong of me to want to play it, wrong of you to let me play it. You’ll play it the right way, be my shamed little baby boy, won’t you, Angel? Show me some shame, baby.” His eyes are like pools of midnight, and the hellfire that dances along Peter’s spine radiates out, making his whole body tremble. Tony’s lips quirk, then, one single finger tracing the line of the blush across Peter’s chest.

Peter shakes his head and then, because he can guess what it’ll do to the man, he mumbles, “Thank you, D-daddy.” The hot shame courses through him with the words, and his dick jumps.

Tony hisses and grabs for Peter’s chin, pulling him up and demanding, “What did you say?”

“Th-thank you, D-daddy,” gasps Peter, eyes closing tight against the shame of it, thanking the man for this moment where he’s crying with shame and aching with lust, his hand sliding through the slick his dick is starting to spill, making him thrust up just a little, just a little, it feels so good, his whole body enveloped by hellfire.

Tony swears, violently, and then rips off his drawers, kicking them down the bed, making it bounce and jiggle under them. He climbs on top of Peter, batting his hand away before pressing down with his hips, trapping their dicks between their stomachs, side by side. “Say it again, baby boy,” he croons, grabbing both of them in one fist loosely. “Say it, want to hear it again.”

“Thank you Tony, D-daddy,” moans Peter, whimpering as Tony begins to thrust his body against Peter’s, because it feels so good but it’s so much, the slide of skin against skin, the feel of Tony’s hand, the small jagged little thrusts Tony’s hips give him. Tony kisses his tear tracks and demands, “You feel good? Baby, that feels good, just like that?”

Peter nods and whines, thrusting up to meet the man’s powerful hips. 

“Well, here I was going to take all night,” chuckles Tony in disbelief, “wasn’t counting on you, though, was I, Angel. Say it again, while I slide against you a little, treat you nice.”

“Thank you, D-daddy,” gasps Peter, shaking. It’s at once similar to the morning before church, Steve thrusting against his backside, and totally foreign. He’s so conscious that this is wrong, they shouldn’t be doing this, but also unwilling to stop until he spills and the damned hellfire ache subsides.

“Like that,” grunts Tony, and Peter marvels at his corded muscles, at the strength of him as he holds himself up on one forearm, thrusting and pulling on them both with his free hand. “Wish I hadn’t told Harley I’d save the best for last, got a feeling you’ll like having me fuck up inside you, baby,” grunts Tony, continuing his small thrusts into his own hand beside Peter’s wet dick.

“You’re gonna let me either way,” he warns, and Peter has no idea why that thought makes him hotter, but it does, it makes him incandescent with want that borders on need. “Fuck, Angel,” hisses Tony, “can see you might want that _more_ , sweet baby, same’s you beg Bucky every day not to be shaved.”

Peter tosses his head as Tony adds, quietly, “Could do that, too, give you what you want that way, let you beg me no, no, no, then take what I want, make you give it up anyway, you like that, Angel? Me taking what’s mine?”

Peter gasps, and it slides up into a whine. “Oh I know that noise, Daddy’s got that one memorized,” chuckles Tony breathlessly. “You first, baby, gonna spill all over you, but you first, make a mess, c’mon baby.” He mutters other coaxing words and phrases, stroking them up and down in time to his powerful thrusts, until Peter whines one last time and thrusts up, hard. 

Tony is smirking down at him when his eyes flutter open. Peter moans, trying to cover his face and Tony laughs, spreading Peter’s seed all over Tony’s dick before sliding down to lock their hips together again, thrusting again into the mess on Peter’s stomach. 

“Shouldn’t do this, shouldn’t let me,” Tony reminds him, and hot embarrassment licks though Peter’s soul, making him moan. “Good boys don’t, you know,” Tony tells him seriously, panting just a little. “How Harley knew under all that Angel there’s a sinner who’ll do anything for me, I don’t know. But you hold still, Angel, hold still and let me sin on you some, dirty up them feathers a bit.”

Peter nods and bites his lip, and Tony shudders against him and orders, “Daddy gave you what you wanted, what you needed, what do you say, Angelbaby?”

“Th-thank you, Daddy,” gasps Peter, and then, listening to Tony groan, low and pained, he murmurs, “Thank you, Daddy,” again, and again, sliding his hands up and over Tony’s body, pulling the other man down tight to him, whispering the mantra into Tony’s ears as Tony shakes apart under his hands. “Thank you, thank you,” he whispers, into the man’s ear, as Tony quivers and gasps and gives shocked, pained grunts, hot wetness spurting onto Peter’s stomach. “Thank you, Tony,” he soothes, sliding his hands down Tony’s back, gentle, soothing, until Tony lifts himself up to look down at Peter.

There’s still some shock in his eyes, something soft, but it’s fast disappearing behind a wicked grin. “You wanted to know something you could give me Harley can’t,” he says, teasing, dipping down to kiss Peter’s lips. “Harley’s fun, knows all kinds of fun tricks, dirty mouth, but he can’t give me that, sweet Angel. Can’t give me them dirty thoughts, can't make it feel like real sin with crocodile tears and words.”

Peter blushes, he can feel it, because he’s being praised for the wrong things again, being told something he knows is wrong is good, but that’s this place, this man, _Tony_ does that. He spins it all wrong, twists it, until what’s wrong is just right enough to be bearable. Peter shifts, acutely aware of the mess going cold on his stomach, and Tony laughs down at him. “Oughta make you lick me clean, the way Hellcat will. Oughta make you lay in it, coated in all them dirty thoughts you pulled outta us tonight. But I won’t,” he laughs, kissing Peter again, nipping hard at his lips so Peter whimpers, snorting and chuckling. “Not tonight, leastways,” he concedes, eyes flashing with laughter.

He lifts himself off with a groan, and grabs for his drawers at the end of the bed. He cleans himself first, and then swipes at Peter until Peter takes the drawers and wipes himself down, glaring up at Tony. Tony laughs again, and says, “You be careful or I’ll make you call me Daddy when I’m deep inside you, watch you fall apart around that sin, Angel.” 

Peter’s jaw drops open and he glares up at Tony, who laughs harder and then leans forward and murmurs throatily, “There’s no end, Peter Stark, no end to the things you’ll do for me, no end to how sinful you’ll be, is there? Nothing you won’t let me do.”

Peter shivers, then, because he can feel it, too, that pull, that pull to do whatever it is Tony wants, that pull to be whoever it is Tony needs. He can pull back, just a little, though, so he murmurs up at Tony, “Thank you, Tony,” and watches as the words slide into Tony’s thoughts and wrap around all the teasing in his eyes and pull him up just a little, just a little bit.

Tony leans forward and bites kisses into Peter’s lips, then his jaw, his neck, and mumbles against his skin, “Best present. Best gift. Always gonna make you feel good, make you mine. You go to sleep, now, you go to sleep, you think on that.”

There’s a rustle at the door, and Harley’s voice rings out, saying blearily, “‘s _locked_ , Jimmyboy. What t’hell?”

“Told you,” grunts Bucky, quieter. “Told you the Boss’d have Angel in there.”

“Well, Steve took that damn syrup,” says Harley petulantly. “And the bed, where’re we supposed to-”

Natasha’s voice walks closer, as Peter stares at Tony wide-eyed. “Come on, boys, my bed’s plenty big enough, come worship with Clint tonight. Got itches need scratching, could use some company, anyway, poor Clint’s like to explode on the first go.”

“Yes, ma’am,” say the other two in stunned agreement, making Peter and Tony both snort and smile at each other.

Tony looks down at Peter, as Harley lets go of the knob, and says, again, “You go to sleep, Angel. Morning’ll be here soon enough, I’ll expect you up. Expect you by my side, the way you belong, in daylight. I’ll come on over, wake you up, you can show me what Harley’s taught you about kissing a man awake.”

“Stay,” offers Peter, but Tony shakes his head.

“No,” he says, regretfully. “Promised the wife I’d come keep her warm. Most nights, it’ll be one of them,” he tells Peter slowly. “Got a whole empire to balance, here at the top, Peter.”

Peter nods and then says, daring, “But one night, yeah? One night you’ll stay home, come to bed early, like you said?”

Tony smiles, sweet and slow, and leans down to kiss Peter’s forehead. “Yeah, Angel. One night, I’ll give you that. More than earned it.”

Peter falls back into the pillows, then, and curls on his side. Tony chuckles and pulls the covers up, tucking them around Peter’s body and says, “Feel like I should sing you a lullaby or something.”

Peter chuckles and waves him off. “Night, Tony.”

“Night, Angel,” says Tony, with one more kiss to Peter’s temple. “Come get you in the morning.”

He walks to the connecting door and Peter knows he gets there when the lights in the room dim to dark. He thinks about Harley, being kicked out of his own room so Peter and Tony can sin, and he chuckles a little to himself, thinking about how they could have just let him in, because they were done. Serves him right, though, thinks Peter smugly. Harley did kidnap him.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVrJoA2O7E4
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like my birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me (it doesn't HAVE to be filthy, but filthy's fine, I'm fine with filthy. LOOK AT WHAT I WRITE, I'm fine with filthy)!


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